The Dragon's Daughter
by xstormbornx
Summary: Half wolf, half dragon, Alys finds that the fight for the throne becomes a battle of the heart instead. {AU}.
1. Blood Of The Dragon

**Author's Note:** Videos for characters canon and original, can be found on my Youtube channel via the link on my profile.

* * *

 **Blood Of The Dragon**

 _Before_

Eddard Stark studied the two baskets before him, searching the faces of the infants within their wicker confines, trying to trace any traitorous Targaryen resemblance that would betray their true origins. But the only hint was in the girl's gaze, flecks of violet edging her irises, making the grey border blue, whilst her brother's eyes were so dark they almost appeared to be onyx. Otherwise, the twins carried the characteristic Stark features, although they were more prominent in the boy, who was already starting to show he had the long Stark face, his sister less so; the boy's dark hair already inclined to curl whilst his sister's threatened to be poker straight.

" _Promise me, Ned_."

He sat down, staring into the middle distance before suddenly burying his head in his hands at the burden he was now forced to bear, wondering if he was strong enough to carry it. The war may have been won, but for Eddard, the battle was just beginning. He would have to fight his first conflict with Catelyn, making the mother of his trueborn son accept his bastard offspring, pretending to dishonour his wife in order to protect his sister's children.

" _Promise me, Ned_."

Already he had borne the slurs cast on him by Robert's soldiers, slandering his sins, heckling him for his hypocrisy, that Ned Stark wasn't the man of honour he purported to be. Yet he endured their insults, hiring the services of a wet nurse, neither denying nor confirming the babies were his bastards, letting the world infer what it would from their unexpected appearance. It was better to be damned by disparagement than death, Eddard flinching from the fate the infants would suffer if the truth was known, remembering what had happened to Rhaegar Targaryen's true heirs. Eddard and Robert had almost come to blows over the slaughter of Rhaegar's wife and children, the men's mutual grief over Lyanna reluctantly reconciling them.

"Ned."

Eddard's head snapped up at the sound of Robert's querulous voice, grey eyes almost battling blue as they looked upon one another, Robert now returned from his ruinous revelry, having been gone for days. To Eddard's uneasiness, Robert seemed sober, which would make it harder to deceive him over Eddard's apparent infidelity to Catelyn. Robert and Eddard were as close as brothers, and Robert had seen firsthand Eddard avoid the embraces of the many whores and wenches they'd encountered on the way to war.

In two quick strides, Robert was beside him, clasping his shoulder with a strong hand, both men bowing their heads, bound by grief. Both men had loved Lyanna, but their love hadn't been enough to stop Lyanna from passing through the gates of death. Robert had exacted his revenge on Rhaegar, and again, Eddard knew Robert would not refrain from slaying the babes Lyanna had borne, keeping his vow to wipe out those who carried Targaryen blood in their veins.

Robert released Eddard, before drifting over to where the baskets were precariously perched, his brow furrowing. Confusion was swiftly replaced by realization, the girl's dark hair and indigo eyes mistakenly marking her out as his. "Why did you bring it back here?" he demanded, face suddenly filled with fury, startling Eddard to his feet, having not foreseen that Robert would think the baby was his bastard. But as he stood there, ready to wage war, Eddard suddenly saw a glimmer of a way to save Lyanna's children, the idea insane, almost impossible. It would mean separation, dividing Eddard from all he held dear, but Robert would not slay his own supposed seed, illegitimate or not.

Several long moments passed, the wind howling outside, Eddard still standing there, Robert turning away from him, his gaze becoming drawn back to the baby's dimpled face. As he studied the baby almost sorrowfully, Eddard's hand discreetly came to a deliberate rest on his sword hilt, praying to the Mother he would not have to shed blood to protect his blood. "Who was it?" Robert said dully, holding his finger out to the child, who just regarded him with wide eyes. "A tavern wench, perchance?"

"Which one?" Eddard said, careful to keep his voice careless, almost jocular, his fingers flexing involuntarily. So far his secret seemed safe, but he didn't let down his guard, even as the idea continued to entice him, his grief blurring the boundaries of his usual stern judgment. He was being backed against a wall, Eddard ready to seize the slightest chance of saving his sister's children. But Robert was proving unpredictable at times, saying one thing, whilst doing another, Eddard observing the unfolding events with dour disapproval.

Robert let out a sudden roar of amusement, throwing back his black head, startling Eddard. "How should I know?" he said, eyes crinkling up at the corners, briefly becoming the boy Eddard had first known so long ago. "They all look the same in the dark."

Eddard exhaled sharply. "It was the one with the grey eyes," he admitted with the air of a man reluctantly revealing a sin, "the one who wept like a child when you left."

"Just after we left Winterfell?" Robert hazarded, brow furrowing. Eddard knew all too well that Robert wouldn't remember, one weeping woman fading into the other. The war had lasted close to a year, many a maid warming the Baretheon bed, and the baby before him was no newborn, arriving some time before the end of the conflict.

"Yes," Eddard agreed, holding Robert's gaze, his own clear and honest as befitting a Stark, possessing no cunning or guile, hiding the lie in plain sight. He had sent the wench who had been Lyanna's companion during her last days into hiding, along with the children, saying he would send word when it was safe, providing her with the prerequisite funds. He had then left the Tower of Joy with Lyanna's body, her corpse is his only companion, nobody knowing that he was being shadowed, followed by Lyanna's legacy.

Upon reuniting with Robert and the remnants of the army they had led against Rhaegar, Eddard had still kept the wench and the children at a safe distance, only finally daring to draw them out into the open after Robert had disappeared for several days of whoring and carousing, feasting until he threw up and drinking until he didn't know who or where he was, burying his grief in gluttony. Eddard had anticipated Robert's absence to last longer, giving him the chance to acclimatise himself to the infants, as well as time to weave a credible tale of their sudden appearance in his existence.

"What happened to the mother?" Robert asked without real interest, Eddard fighting the urge to flinch, remembering Lyanna lying on her deathbed, the fear in her eyes.

"She died in childbed," Eddard said brutally. "Her people pressed the babe on me; that they couldn't afford to keep her but that a king could instead."

"I would be a poor man if I supported every bastard I spawned," Robert said irritably. "What about you? How are you going to explain that offshoot there to Catelyn?" He jerked his chin at the child in the basket before Eddard, the sight seeming to annoy him even further, another reminder of responsibility.

"By telling the truth," Eddard said through gritted teeth, "that I dishonoured her by laying with another woman."

"I seem to remember you evading the embrace of every willing woman who flung herself at your feet," Robert said, raising an eyebrow. "Obviously you changed your mind one evening."

"I was intoxicated," Eddard said stiffly, "and have since seen the error of my ways. The boy will serve as a stark warning to stay sober."

"Stark by sire, if not in name," Robert said lightly, taking the chubby finger of what he believed to be his own bastard, "it will be a harsh existence, even under your protection, Ned."

"I made a promise," Eddard said, his voice cracking. "and I intend to keep it." _Promise me, Ned..._

"I suppose I'll have to keep this one, too, then," Robert said, exhaling sharply, "although what Cersei will have to say on the subject, I do not know, even as I can well imagine."

Eddard tensed up, refusing to be sidetracked by the mention of Robert's supposed intended. "You'll keep her, then?" he said, struggling to keep his voice steady, reality suddenly crashing down on him like waves, realising too late what he had done.

"She's mine," Robert said abruptly, "and I won't let her starve. But that is the best I can do for her, you have my word. She might be a bastard, but she is a Baratheon bastard."

 _No_ , Eddard thought, feeling his heart fracture in his chest, knowing there was no way back now, _she _is a Targaryen, blood of the dragon__.


	2. Losing Touch

**Losing Touch**

 _After_

The taste of blood was bitter on her tongue, but Alys kept her countenance, her expression empty of emotion. Cersei stared down at her, towering above Alys, her face furious, complexion utterly devoid of colour. Ever since her husband had foisted his bastard upon her, only mere days after their wedding and bedding, Cersei had hated Alys on sight, seeing her very existence as an insult. As the seasons spanned years, time had only served to strengthen Cersei's hatred, a mere glance from Alys enough to send Cersei into a senseless rage.

It seemed like only yesterday to Cersei, that she had been summoned before Robert for a private audience with him, only to find Robert sitting astride the Iron Throne, dandling a baby on his knee, a child with his black hair and blue eyes, plainly marking her out as a Baratheon bastard. Appearing oblivious to Cersei's state of shock, Robert had coolly said he would be raising his daughter in the Red Keep, that he would not make her an unwelcome ward, instead emulating Eddard Stark's example of taking sole responsibility for his seed.

At this, Cersei had choked out _what of the other seeds he had sown? Would he make a fool of himself even further by welcoming them all within these walls?_ Robert had merely frowned, running his large hand over the child's dark head, the gesture surprisingly protective. Cersei had then drawn the skirts of her gown around her, nostrils flaring, sneering at Robert how she doubted the castle could contain all his bastards, and she for one would not stay to find out; that she refused to be insulted anymore than she was now.

An ugly argument had followed, a fight Robert had finally won, Cersei capitulating against her will, finding herself up against a force greater than any she'd ever encountered before. She saw Robert was a creature of caprice, and the child was but a whim; that he would acknowledge one bastard but ignore a hundred others, just because the fancy took him. Already she had observed that Robert would be morose one moment, then smiling the next, bestowing favours in the morning, then withdrawing them in the afternoon. When he was in his good moods, he was like a roaring fire, drawing all near him, high and low, and she too had been dazzled by Robert, but no more, learning too late that he was in love with a ghost and not the living girl he had taken to wife, elevating Lyanna Stark above all others, even as he indulged himself in amorous affairs he didn't trouble to conceal from Cersei's sight.

When Robert had first reluctantly taken responsibility for the child's welfare, he had made plans to farm it out to some obliging noble family, paying for its keep to keep it out of his sight. He'd had a notion to offload it back onto Ned, a sort of petty revenge since he blamed Ned in the first place for the predicament he found himself in, but the child's piteous plight had sat strangely uneasy on Robert's cracked conscience. When Ned had almost nervously offered to make the child a ward of Winterfell, doing exactly what Robert had originally intended, Robert had surprisingly refused him. The baby was pretty and placid, something in its wide blue stare appealing to Robert's sentimental streak, making him feel generous towards it. So when Cersei had threatened the child, _do as you please, but you may find that the city is not a healthy place for a growing girl_ , he had brutally raised his hand to his new bride, setting the precedent for their marriage.

So the child had stayed, Robert naming her Alys, even as he did not name her as an heir. She grew up in the shadow of the Iron Throne, trying and failing to stay out of Cersei's path, realising at an early age she was the queen's implacable enemy, only understanding why when she was older. Many an eyebrow was raised at a bastard being openly raised alongside the royal golden-haired children Cersei had presented Robert with over the years, Alys as different to her brothers and sister as night to day, but the threat of Robert's wrath was enough to silence all on the subject.

His attitude towards Alys had faded to an absent-minded affection, displayed by a fond but forgetful pat on the head or the present of a fashionable gown that didn't fit, Alys oddly existing in his eyes only if she was right in front of him, almost having to prove her presence. To Robert, she was all but useless, but his trueborn children were equally disappointing to him; Joffrey the most, whilst Tommen was too weak and girlish for Robert's taste, Myrcella a simpering miss, only fit to marry off to the highest bidder.

As Alys blankly held Cersei's gaze, the history of the long years of enmity hanging heavy between them, the older woman's jaw tightened, her fist clenching again in involuntary reflex. She had just returned from a clandestine rendezvous with Jaime, when Alys had passed her in the corridor, her head proudly raised as any princess's, something in her stance irrationally incensing Cersei, and she had attacked Alys, striking her hard across the face, cutting her lip.

"How dare you?" Cersei hissed as she circled Alys. " _How dare you?_ "

"How dare I what?" Alys said quietly, only for Cersei to suddenly seize a handful of her long dark hair, dragging her upwards so they were eye-level.

"How dare you even _breathe_?" Cersei spat, green eyes blazing like wildfire."Your very existence is an affront" -

\- "Fighting over me, ladies?" Jaime said smoothly, making Cersei abruptly release Alys, all too aware of the undignified picture she presented, brawling like a tavern wench.

"Do not flatter yourself, dear brother," Cersei said from between gritted teeth, "I was merely enforcing my maternal duty. As you know all too well, Alys needs instruction, especially when it comes to knowing her place."

Jaime shot Alys a sympathetic glance, holding her gaze, making her cheeks colour hotly. He knew Alys nursed an immature infatuation for him, and it amused him to make her blush with his two-edged compliments, enjoying infuriating Cersei even further, his sister sometimes getting on his last nerve no matter how much she held first place in his heart above everyone and everything else. Alys was young and threatening to be fair, the combination of her jet hair and indigo eyes already starting to attract attention, her burgeoning beauty only serving to increase Cersei's antagonism towards her. Even as Cersei outshone Alys, it was a reign that was running out of time, Cersei's smooth skin slowly losing its lustre, the bright glory of her golden hair faintly dimming.

"What do you want, Jaime?" Cersei said coldly, drawing herself to her full height, eyes narrowing. "Why do you seek to delay me?"

"My darling, don't you know?" Jaime said mockingly, shooting Alys a sideways smile, making her flush hotly afresh. "And there's me thinking you were the fount of all knowledge. I would swear you knew everything that happened in King's Landing before it actually happened" -

\- "Get to the point, Jaime" -

"Jon Arryn is dead," Jaime said with a strange smile, "may his soul rest in peace."

 _Convince me that the truth is always grey_  
 _Caress me in your velvet chair_  
 _Conceal me from the ghosts you cast away..._


	3. Amidst The Echoes

**Amidst The Echoes**

Alys cautiously held the prayer candle aloft, using the flickering flame to light her way down the steps, casting darting shadows across the red stone walls. Possessing neither septa nor status, Alys existed in purgatory, sidelined and shunned, often being called upon by Septa Eglantine to help assist with dressing Myrcella's hair amongst a myriad of other mundane duties. Whilst Myrcella learned to play the part of a princess, always performing to an audience, Alys would discreetly exile herself, seeking solititude in the embrace of the closest window embrasure. Yet at the same time, she was expected to observe the rituals of the court as though she were one of the elite, to be present even as she was not part of the proceedings. She would be at a banquet or a dance, sometimes seated in the royal stand at tournaments, concealed almost out of sight behind her brothers and sister; always in the background, always overlooked.

Exhaling sharply, Alys sat down on the last step, setting the prayer candle down beside her, its flame guttering in the slight breeze. The air was damp, making Alys pull her worn mantle tighter around her shoulders, knowing that she could not linger long, only staying for the silence her soul so craved. It was one of the few mercies that salved the hard passage of the days, along with her small turret room filled with her illicit collection of tattered manuscripts and books, as well as the grey mare that had passed into her possession after Myrcella had virulently refused to ride the horse, terrified after it thrown Joffrey, even as he'd more than deserved it, needlessly kicking the creature to make it go faster.

It had been Jaime who had interceded over the grey mare, stopping Sandor Clegane from running his sword through its throat, saying it would be a waste of coin to slay a mount so costly. He had suggested that such tainted goods should be given to those who would be most grateful for it, and so Alys had come to own her first horse, Jaime instructing and insulting in the same breath as he taught her how to ride, not bothering to curtail his curses at the mistakes she made, always aware of Cersei's censure. But she would have endured worse to have his undivided attention, always living for the moment when he would lift her down from the horse, holding her close for a heartbeat, before abruptly releasing her. Yet even as she craved his company, another part of her recoiled from him, Alys unable to reconcile the two emotions. The girl she had been worshipped the golden knight of yore, whilst the woman she was fast becoming remembered he was the Kingslayer; that there was a darkness to Jaime she did not dare discover.

But Alys was aware that despite everything she had come to care for, she could never bring herself to love fully, always holding a part of herself back. She loved her grey mare, but it was a stifled affection, Alys knowing one day Joffrey would connive to have it killed, always bearing a grudge against those who thwarted him, be it man or beast. She loved Myrcella and Tommen, but a gulf was growing between them, her younger siblings going where she could not follow. In the corrupt court at King's Landing, she had come to learn that the only person she could trust was herself, nobody and no-one else, careful to keep the drawbridge to her heart closed against all who would aspire to breach it.

Glancing around her, Alys acknowledged her heritage against her will, a tainted Targaryen inheritance embodied by the many dragon skulls mounted upon the red stone walls surrounding where she sat. Her great grandmother had been Rhaelle Targaryen, but any Targaryen traits had been diluted over the ages by the time it became Baratheon, the characteristic violet eyes of the Valyrians becoming a blazing blue instead. Many a time, Alys had examined her own reflection without vanity, guiltily attempting to see beyond the Baratheon bastard she was, trying to trace her true essence, only to fail abysmally.

Standing up, Alys wandered over to the far wall, ignoring the empty eyes that observed her passage across the uneven stone floor, sockets unseeing, casting visions into the void. Biting her lip, she hesitated before sliding her hand between the gaping jaws of one of the smaller skulls' maws, dread and a dizzying rush striking her as always whenever she indulged in this childish game, the long jagged teeth scraping against her skin. Laughing at her own foolishness, she withdrew her hand, turning on the spot, casting her gaze across the other skulls, some big enough to swallow her whole, the sight always making the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

"A true daughter of dragons," Jaime said mockingly from the top of the steps, making Alys whirl around, her hand flying to her throat. "I suppose blood wills out in the end, no matter how much Robert denies the fire that runs through his veins."

"You always speak as though you don't fear my father," Alys said slowly, resting her hand atop the closest dragon skull, unconsciously drawing courage from its presence.

Jaime just smiled, enjoying disturbing Alys's usually implacable calm, knowing all too well he was the only one that could. "They call me the Kingslayer, don't they?" he said quietly as he came down the steps, every movement slow and deliberate, making his shadow creep across the walls, almost monstrous in its manoeuvres.

But Alys just tilted her chin, refusing to be provoked, trying to still her beating heart. Jaime came to a halt in front of her, towering above Alys, his gaze locking with hers, unwanted want swelling within him, desire duelling with darkness, the strange silence surrounding them unlocking all he sought to keep hidden. Cersei owned him heart and soul, sprung from the same flesh, but whenever he looked upon Alys, he would guiltily think _if only_ ; if only she wasn't a bastard, if only he wasn't a knight in the Kingsguard; if only he had been born alone.

For Jaime, Alys reminded him of the peace he had once possessed, the innocence he had exiled himself from. He knew he could seduce her into surrender, but the ragged remnants of his boyish idylls recoiled from the idea of polluting such purity, such impulses surprising Jaime despite himself. But he recognised she was one of the few to have remained untouched by the treachery that served as common currency at the court, keeping her own counsel, reluctantly commanding his respect.

But even as he discreetly admired her character, he was more than drawn to her youth, finding in her what was long lost to him, the promise of endless possibility. With long dark hair falling around her frank face, her plain black gown devoid of ornament, her ivory skin unadorned by powder and paint, she cut a strong contrast to the other women who resided in the Red Keep. But she suited such simplicity, the stark style setting off her dramatic colouring like a spark to a flame, drawing the eye of all, Jaime's above all others, watching her against his will.

"Your eyes are violet in the dark," Jaime said suddenly, softly, lifting a loose lock of jet hair away from Aly's face, making her tense under his touch, "you should keep such eyes veiled, my lady."

"Is there a reason for your presence here, Ser Jaime?" Alys said coldly, even as she was unable to stop a tremor entering her voice, hating herself for being so weak.

"Is there a reason for yours?" Jaime countered. "Are you exploring? I highly recommend such a past-time. Discreet corners are a commodity beyond value in King's Landing, don't you agree?"

Alys's jaw tightened. "Pray excuse me," she repeated, drawing herself to her full height, dropping her hand to her side, "I must take my leave."

"What, has your lover thrown you over for a fairer face?" Jaime said, blocking her, making Alys take a step back. "Mind you, he must be a fool to set aside one such as you."

"I am not here to entertain an intrigue," Alys said stiffly, pulling her mantle closer around her, the gesture defensive.

"Do you desire the company of dragons instead, then?" Jaime said with one of his mocking smiles.

Without a word, Alys picked up the prayer candle, placing her finger in the midst of the flickering flame, holding it there, her pale face devoid of pain.

"An old Targaryen trick," Jaime observed, hiding his unease with offhand humour, unnerved by Alys, having not seen this side of her before, "but don't perform it for your father. You may lose your hand, maybe even your head. Your father's hypocrisy commands a high price."

"You said blood wills out," Alys said coldly, "I am merely putting it into practice."

"You are literally playing with fire," Jaime reminded her, "so heed my warning."

"Are you friend or foe, Ser Jaime?" Alys said, tilting her head to the side, removing her finger from the flame as she spoke. "The lion hunts the stag, does it not?"

"The lion hunts all," Jaime said, thinking of Jon Arryn's corpse lying in state before the Iron Throne, still showing fealty even in death, "but the stag runs the swiftest. Even the most deadliest of enemies can be outrun, Alys."

"What if there is nowhere to run?" Alys said quietly, glancing around her, the dragon skulls surrounding her like an army.

Jaime bowed his golden head. "There is a world beyond the walls of King's Landing, Alys," he said tiredly, suddenly sounding very old, "a world where we can be somebody other than ourselves."

Alys half closed her eyes, his words cutting like a knife, striking the very soul of her.

"You will not always be here, Alys," Jaime said, raising his head, something in his voice forcing Alys to face him, "soon, you'll be bound for Winterfell. Your father is of a mind to make a royal progress to the North, with my beloved sister naturally by his side, and you and your siblings are to accompany them."

Alys stared at Jaime in disbelief. "Does he wish to insult the Starks by flaunting his bastard in their faces?" she said, shocked.

"You forget Eddard Stark set the fashion for flaunting bastards in the first place," Jaime said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth again, his feet back on familiar ground, "he stopped you from starving in the gutter, didn't he?"

Alys just looked away, all too aware of Eddard Stark's interference in her existence, Cersei more than once openly cursing him for his misplaced kindness.

"Mind you," Jaime said, cupping her chin with his large hand, making Alys stiffen, "if you were my bastard, I'd keep you around for decorative purposes." Alys tore herself free from his grip, only for Jaime to suddenly cage her in with his arms, pressing his palms against the red walls, hemming her in. "And so here is the fury," he said quietly, his green gaze travelling over Alys's angry face, seeking her lips -

Before he could react, Alys slipped out under his arms, whirling on him, brandishing the prayer candle like a sword. "I may be a bastard but I will not be dallied with like a common whore," she said through gritted teeth, "you will do well to remember that" -

\- "What, you don't wish for your first kiss to be from a handsome knight?" Jaime said mockingly, running his hand almost ruefully across his head, hiding how shaken he was, Alys almost making him lose control of himself. He had told himself he would not touch her, his heart only serving Cersei, yet he had almost broken that promise, about to betray his sister with her husband's bastard.

Alys didn't answer him, only averting her eyes from his, half turning away from him. Jaime looked at her for a long moment, remembering Jon Arryn and his extreme interest in Alys, an interest he had extended to include Robert's other bastards, having begun to study the Baratheon bloodline, threatening to take the throne from Jaime's flesh and blood, the enemy marked out by their jet hair and indigo eyes. Consequently, Jaime was caught between his heart and his head, Alys stilling his hand even as it reached for his sword. Hesitating, Jaime almost spoke of his sins, but then he was gone, leaving Alys alone, surrounded by the echoes of her ancestors.

 _All my dreams and all the lights mean_  
 _Nothing if I can't have you..._


	4. Keep My Heart Slow

**Keep My Heart Slow**

 _So break my step_ _  
_ _And relent_ _  
_ _You forgave and I won't forget…_

With great trepidation, Catelyn Stark entered the godswood, drawing her berry coloured cloak close around her. She had never felt comfortable with stepping upon such sacrilegious ground, sensing the mocking gaze of the old gods upon her back, wondering at her effrontery for daring to disturb their ancient peace. Exhaling sharply, she approached the weirwood tree that sheltered a small pool, its waters still and deep, a tranquil spot where Ned could often be found just as he was now, sat under the heart tree's sprawling branches, polishing his sword Ice with slow and steady strokes, the gesture characteristically careful and measured.

"All these years, and I still feel like an outsider when I come here," Catelyn remarked as she approached Ned, making him glance up, his usually stern face softening at the sight of her.

"You have five northern children," Ned said lightly, even as he silently included Jon amongst the number to make six, his supposed bastard, Jon with his grave face and almost onyx eyes, Stark by nature if not in name. Yet six should have been seven, Ned painfully remembering the child he'd allowed to pass into Robert's possession, the lash of the memory not lessening over time. "You're not an outsider," he then reiterated, turning his face from the past, refusing to accept its existence, "you never were."

"I wonder if the old gods agree," Catelyn sighed, sitting down beside him, before hugging her knees to her chest, the gesture surprisingly girlish.

"It's your gods with all the rules," Ned jested, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. But Catelyn didn't smile back, staring out across the still surface of the dark waters, concealing something almost out of sight in her hand. "What is it?" Ned said suddenly, raising his grey gaze to hers, forcing her to face him. "What's wrong?"

Catelyn bowed her head, half closing her eyes. "I'm so sorry, my love," she said brokenly, holding out her hand, revealing a coiled up piece of parchment, its contents shattering the quiet way of life at Winterfell that they held so dear. "There was a raven from King's Landing," she explained as Ned took the missive, unfurling it with shaking fingers, "Jon Arryn is dead. A... a fever took him."

Ned stared at her in disbelief, the world seeming to retreat from him, beholding his surroundings almost as a stranger.

"I know he was like a father to you," Catelyn said quietly, taking his large hand in hers, her grip surprisingly strong, "but he is at peace now. We should be grateful for that."

Ned looked away, lips trembling, knowing all too well the crevasse Jon's death would create, not just personally, but politically. "How is his son?" he said with great difficulty. "Your sister, Lysa?"

"They both have their health," Catelyn said tiredly, thinking of her highly strung sister and the much wanted boy she had borne for Jon Arryn, a fearful creature who was scared of his own shadow, Catelyn wishing in vain she could spare them from the agony that lay ahead, "gods be good. That is all I pray for." She glanced up at the heart tree, at the timeworn face carved into its trunk, its cavernless gaze almost searing into her soul. "The raven brought more news," she said slowly, "the king rides for Winterfell, with the queen and the children, as well as being accompanied by an assemblage." She exhaled sharply, steeling herself for what she had to say next, the words tasting like bile on her tongue. "He has also inexplicably included his bastard amongst his retinue," she all but spat, startling Ned, making him stiffen, "and no doubts expects us to entertain her as royally as the rest of them" -

\- "She's just a girl," Ned cut across her, his face hardening, understanding Catelyn's ire against his will, "don't blame her for the sins of the father."

" _She_ is the sin you speak of," Catelyn flared up, "a sin you should have left well alone" -

\- "I had no choice!" Ned snapped, standing up. "She would have starved in the gutter if I hadn't! Robert is like my brother, and she is of his blood, so I had to honour that, Catelyn."

"And now the king has decided to show his appreciation of such honour by flaunting his by-blow in our faces," Catelyn said coldly, rising to her own feet, "not caring if he insults us as long as he succeeds in insulting his wife, or so the rumor-mongers say."

Ned looked away again, half closing his eyes, ruthlessly repressing the leaping of his heart at the thought of seeing Lyanna's daughter, of having the chance to see if some spark of his sister still lived on. He saw nothing of Lyanna in Jon, who favoured the stern side of the Starks. "If the king's coming this far north," Ned then said, raising his head, "there's only one thing he's after."

"You can always say no," Catelyn said bluntly, half wondering if she could do as Lysa had and suffer her husband to be the Hand of the King, whilst half wondering if she had said no to having a cuckoo in her nest, would Jon be here, her happiness no longer blighted by a bastard. But instead she had done her duty as a wife, unwillingly accepting the insult of Ned's dishonour, the shame still raw even now, her very being branded by it.

"Can I?" Ned said simply.


	5. Into The Unknown

**Into The Unknown**

 _A month later_

Idly stroking Tommen's fair hair, Alys glanced out of the window of the ornate wheelhouse, an almost hideous contraption of oiled oak and gilded metal, Cersei refusing to be satisfied by no less than the most ostentatious equipage that the kingdom's coffers could afford. Outside, winter held its ruthless rule over the world, every breath Alys took misting the air, the cold cutting into her flesh despite the various furs she was draped with, Cersei ensuring they were of inferior quality to her own sumptuous furs.

Exhaling sharply, Alys stirred in her seat, her legs stiff from sitting so long in the same position, her siblings slumbering against her, Tommen's head in her lap, Myrcella leaning against her shoulder, their golden colouring cutting a strong contrast as ever against her own darkness. Since they had set out for Winterfell, the two children had clung to Alys, alternating between fear and excitement over travelling so far from all they knew, Alys almost unable to keep control over them, the two in constant trouble, causing calamity at every possible opportunity.

Cersei sat across from Alys, Joffrey by her side, his uncle Tyrion next to him in turn, Cersei uncharacteristically still, eying Alys contemptuously, Joffrey more concerned with his new sword than anything else, obviously aching to inflict its sharp edge upon someone. In the furthest corner, the Hound half slept, the shadows playing across his scarred face, the sight sickening Alys as ever, despite despising herself for feeling so, knowing such emotion only served to show her own shallowness.

Biting her lip, Alys averted her gaze from his face, but not before catching Tyrion's eye, the dwarf raising his eyebrows, almost admonishing her, Alys looking out of the window again, face burning above her furs. She had long suspected Tyrion saw through to the very heart of her, his mismatched gaze piercing her proud front, reading her soul like one of the manuscripts he so liked to study. As she had grown up, always out of place and always in the way, Alys had never attempted to understand the mercurial Tyrion, only knowing his psyche seemed to be split in two; that there was the Imp, and then there was Tyrion, two halves of the same tarnished Lannister coin.

"You look rather warm, Alys," Tyrion said smoothly, making Cersei glance up sharply, "shall I have some of the shutters raised?"

"What, and have us freeze to death?" Cersei snapped. "Don't be ridiculous, Tyrion. I vow coming North has made you lose what little wits you had left from whoring your way across Westeros."

"So Cersei has decreed," Tyrion said, inclining his head at Alys, making Cersei scoff. "We shall all simply have to sweat, stinking this wheeled contraption out – Hound, I swear you smell just like wet dog" -

\- "Enough," Cersei ordered abruptly, "I'm tired of your yapping tongue."

Tyrion finally fell silent, Alys looking out of the window again, letting her gaze travel across the river of gold, silver and polished steel that flowed outside the wheelhouse, golden banners billowing in the wind above the head of the three hundred strong bannermen, knights, sworn swords and freeriders. But behind the pomp and circumstance was a serious purpose, not a sudden whim as Jaime had implied, Robert orchestrating the progress to Winterfell in order to secure a new Hand to the King, finding it in the form of Ned Stark.

Since Jon Arryn's untimely death, Alys's existence had inexplicably changed, finding herself forced to stand beside her siblings instead of behind them, her wardrobe ruthlessly overhauled, the dark shades and simple gowns she favoured thrown aside for more opulent affairs, Septa Eglantine ordered to take her in hand, Alys unable to understand why she was being brought forth so. Tyrion had inadvertently enlightened her, after Alys and half the court had listened to Cersei release a stream of invective against Robert over having Alys accompanying them to Winterfell. Tyrion had said that it was being done simply to piss Cersei off, causing a ripple of muted laughter to travel around the chamber, only to be abruptly silenced by the terrible look on Cersei's face, Alys receiving the full force of her rage later, being beaten like a dog, Cersei then spitting on her, the final insult.

Even now, Tyrion's words still stung; she had naively nurtured a brief childish belief that she was being brought to Winterfell as the equal of her siblings, that despite being a bastard, her father wanted his family with him, all of his family, even Alys. But it was just another strike at Cersei, Robert enjoying the joke like a boy, not heeding who he hurt in the process, insulting all convention as he did, not seeming to care he would be affronting the Starks by presenting his bastard as a princess, by dressing her up like a doll and making her perform like a puppet.

"Mother," Tommen whined, raising his head from Aly's lap, "I need the chamberpot."

"Oh, gods," Joffrey said in disgust, nostrils wrinkling in disgust, "he's pissed himself!"

"Have not!" Tommen protested, clenching his small fists, about as threatening as a kitten. "I'm a big boy now!"

"Enough!" Cersei snapped, instantly silencing Tommen, making him huddle against Alys. "And mind your tongue," she admonished Joffrey, smoothing down his golden hair as she spoke, softening the rebuke, "I will not have my son parlancing like a peasant."

Joffrey just looked away, his grip momentarily tightening around the hilt of his sword, looking very much as though he'd like to strike someone, even his own mother. As the order was given to stop the wheelhouse for the umpteenth time, Alys tried to smooth down her disordered hair, doing the same for Myrcella, half wishing for the sneering presence of Septa Eglantine as she tried in vain to sort out the blonde tangles, Myrcella jerking her head wildly, complaining loudly Alys was hurting her, Cersei suddenly lunging forwards and slapping Alys, sending her flying back against the seat, stunned.

"Don't you dare hurt my Myrcella," Cersei hissed, green eyes wild, making Alys involuntarily cower, "venting your jealousy upon an innocent little girl" -

\- "Enough," Tyrion said abruptly, deliberately echoing Cersei, his gaze briefly travelling over the tableau in front of him: the red handprint vividly visible on Alys's cheek, Tommen and Myrcella clutching Alys's fur-lined cloak, Cersei standing, looming over them all like some beautiful demon, "we're tired of hearing the same old refrain falling from your lips, dear sister. The entire kingdom knows Alys is a bastard and that you beat her for so much as blinking in your presence – there's really no need for you to reinforce what we are already so aware of."

"Don't you dare speak to my mother like that," Joffrey flared up, rising to his feet, staggering slightly as the wheelhouse finally slowed to a grinding halt.

"I do dare," Tyrion said lazily, jumping down from his seat, winking at the Hound as he did, "but do _you_ dare to use that sword upon me, as you are so obviously itching to do?" He gestured flippantly to the sword Joffrey was almost unconsciously aiming in his direction, making the boy flush hotly, lowering it to his side. Tyrion just raised his eyebrows, before turning to Tommen and Myrcella, his face softening. "I believe young man, you need to take a piss," he said, signaling Tommen forth, "and you, my lady," he said, turning to Myrcella as he spoke, "require the services of your septa to sort that beautiful hair of yours. Shall I lead the way to salvation?"

"No, you may not," Cersei said coldly, taking the two children by the hands, "but you may stay here and sweat like the swine you are." Without another word, she all but dragged the children out of the wheelhouse, Joffrey trailing sullenly at her heels, followed as ever by the Hound.

"Ah, sweet Cersei," Tyrion said satirically, turning to Alys, who had now straightened up, "what devastation her absence creates."

Alys didn't answer him, smoothing down the front of her rumpled vesture instead, trying and failing to recover her usual poise.

"Where is the sainted Septa Eglantine, anyways?" Tyrion continued, unperturbed. "Is it true she was told to travel with the lower orders since she disturbed my dear sister with her snoring?"

Again, Alys didn't answer him, only glancing out of the window, her full lips thinning.

Tyrion looked at her for a long moment, before suddenly losing his temper. "By the old gods and the new, girl," he snapped, startling Alys, "don't let them stamp out what little spirit you have left. Where is that famous fury, eh?"

"I'm not a Baratheon," Alys said dully.

Tyrion just shook his head. "My sister is terrified of you, you know," he said, startling Alys again, offering her his hand, "so why don't you give her something to be frightened of?"

Alys just stared at his outstretched hand, suddenly remembering him doing the same when she hadn't been much bigger than him, Tyrion helping her to her feet after Cersei had struck her down. "She finds no threat in me," she said tiredly, hesitating before taking his hand, reluctantly allowing Tyrion to assist her.

"She finds in you all she fears," Tyrion reiterated. "She thinks you will take away all that she owns, even what she doesn't value."

"I think you are mistaken, my lord" -

\- "She cannot hold the affection of others without also acquiring their animosity," Tyrion cut across her, "the children love her, but they are also learning to resent her. I imagine even my dear brother sometimes despises his dearest. And Robert, well, he curses the very ground Cersei steps so daintily upon. But you, my sweet Alys, you have their hearts, and their hearts alone. It is a rare gift, one Cersei envies, she who always has to be first."

"Whilst I am always last," Alys said coldly, drawing herself to her full height, "if I inspire affection, it is merely the faintest echo of it. However, I do not seek sympathy for my bastard state, only that I ask you to refrain from referencing it in my presence. As you so succinctly put it, the whole kingdom is more than aware of it, none no more so than I."

"And so we finally find the fury," Tyrion said with a wicked grin, inexplicably reminding Alys of Jaime, before turning and leaving, springing out of the wheelhouse, Alys watching him part the crowds as though he were a giant.

 _Because we're the masters of our own fate_ _  
_ _We're the captains of our own souls_ _  
_ _There's no way for us to come away…_


	6. A Cage of Swords

**A Cage of Swords**

 _Before_

Holding her breath, Alys stood before the Iron Throne, eyes wide with wonder. Here, she'd observed her father in a thousand moods, the throne of swords forming an imposing backdrop to her memories. Sometimes her father would slump down in its seat, exhausted by burdens he had not been born to bear. Or sometimes he would sit on the stone steps leading up the throne, the gesture jarringly boyish; with a wench on his knee and a roguish grin wreathing his handsome face, his large hand brandishing a tankard of beer instead of his famous hammer. But most of all he would sit upon the Iron Throne in state, brow furrowed, the crown heavy on his head; the throne casting a long shadow, engulfing empires. Yet despite its darkness, the Iron Throne continued to entice Alys, the child unaware it would always be out of her reach, her bastard blood ensuring it was so.

But in this moment, nothing barred her way, the throne seemingly hers for the taking, Alys taking a tentative step forwards, then another, and another, her small feet struggling up the steps, Alys falling over once or twice, before picking herself up again, steadying her wobbling lower lip as she did, having long learned that her tears only served to invoke violence, especially from her stepmother, her heavily ringed hand striking Alys at the slightest provocation.

Alys stood in frightened awe of Cersei, bedazzled by her golden beauty, her stepmother bearing a strong resemblance to the illustrations of the beautiful highborn maidens from the ancient tales of chivalry Alys liked to look at. She was unable to read the faded print of the tattered manuscripts, her father failing to exert himself in terms of her education, only employing a series of indifferent septas who haphazardly attended to Aly's needs. After the last septa had been dismissed for drunkenness, Alys was now served by Septa Berdell, a surprisingly young woman with navy eyes and dark eyebrows that collided with her pale hair hidden beneath her head-dress, her waistline threatening towards plumpness, the septa not above casting covetous glances at the king whenever she thought she wasn't being observed.

Biting her lip, Alys hesitated, staring at the swords fanning high above her, suddenly frozen with fear at what Septa Berdell would do if she found her in the forbidden throne room, having swiftly discovered that the septa could deliver a hard slap just as well as Cersei. Glancing around her, Alys felt her nerve slipping, the drapes of black velvet swathing the walls seeming to suffocate what little light was in the room, drowning her in darkness.

The kingdom had been plunged into mourning for the little black-browed prince Cersei had borne Robert six months before, a matter Alys had shown scant interest in, the baby stealing whatever intermittent interest her father had shown in her. But the child had unexpectedly died several nights ago, sending the court spiraling into chaos, Cersei hysterical, Robert beating his hands bloody against the wall, Alys hiding under her bed, terrified, her small world tumbling down around her ears. She had seen the small bundle being carried away by the maester, Alys unable to understand death, only that the blue-eyed boy she'd reluctantly called brother was suddenly and inexplicably still.

For a long moment, Alys just stood there, the Iron Throne seeming to whirl above her, then she suddenly staggered up the last remaining steps, seized by a reckless resolve, only to suddenly trip and stumble forwards, flinging out her hand to catch herself, catching the edge of one of the swords instead, cutting her palm. With a sharp cry, Alys reeled back, grabbing her injured hand with the other, the blood seeping through her fingers, staining her skin.

"Get down from there!" a voice demanded from the doorway, making Aly's head snap up, startled, only to see Jaime Lannister standing in the shadows. "You have no right to even be in here!" he said through gritted teeth, sheathing his sword upon seeing the intruder was nothing more than his brother-in-law's bastard.

Alys just stared at him, a tear sliding down her pale face, fear holding her hostage. Cersei's twin brother had always equally fascinated and frightened her, but she was becoming increasingly aware of the hushed whispers that followed in his wake, Alys sensing more than understanding that the golden knight was reviled as well as revered.

"Why are you not in your own chambers?" Jaime snapped as he strode forwards, impatiently gesturing for her to come down, having no time for a brat that was always underfoot, her very existence an insult to the sister he held so dear. "Isn't it well past your bedtime?"

Again, Alys just stared at him, too scared to shape any kind of answer, shrinking into herself.

"Where's that damned septa of yours?" Jaime then asked, glancing around him, irritated at being encumbered so. "Drinking herself into a stupor like the last one? Or will I perchance find her in the king's bed?"

"She doesn't know I'm here," Alys blurted out, fear making her suddenly find her voice, scared of what Septa Berdell would do if she was blamed for this latest transgression.

Jaime just stood there, his green gaze flickering disinterestedly over the tableau before him, of a bastard and a throne denied, before turning away, only intent on seeking out Cersei, wanting nothing more than to take her in his arms, to stand between her and the shadows, pressing his large palm against her abdomen, shielding his child as he did the mother.

"I hurt my hand," Alys wailed as Jaime made to leave, another tear falling down her face, the blood now dripping onto her dress.

"Well, run along to the maester, then," Jaime retorted, "for I am no nursemaid."

At this, Alys finally broke down into the ugly sobs she'd been struggling to hold back for so long, the sound ringing throughout the still room, making Jaime flinch. Yet even as he strode in the direction of the doorway, some strange impulse made him hesitate; that weakness within Jaime that made him pity the broken even as he despised them for their deficiencies.

Raising his eyes up to the vaulted ceiling, Jaime exhaled sharply before turning and striding up the stone steps, lifting Alys with ease. He carried her down away from the throne, before roughly depositing her onto the ground, Alys staring up at him with wide eyes, Jaime uncomfortably noting the violet that edged her irises, still hearing _burn them all!_ echoing down the years. For all Robert raged against Rhaegar, his own blood was tainted by the Targaryen inheritance, his bastard inheriting the fire as well as the fury.

"My _hand_ ," Alys whined as Jaime then knelt down before her, "it _hurts_."

"Of course it's going to hurt, you little fool," Jaime snapped, taking the palm she proffered and turning it over, "you've just been bitten by a blade. What on earth possessed you touch a sword so?"

"I fell."

"You _fell?_ " Jaime said sarcastically, abruptly letting go of her hand. "Four name-days have came and went for you, brat, and yet still you stagger about like an infant."

Alys just scowled at him, her black brows drawing together dangerously, even as her lower lip trembled again. "I am almost five," she said pettishly, "I am not a baby!"

Jaime just shook his head. "No, you're a brat," he reiterated, "and a bastard to boot. The path you walk won't be easy, and you will fall often, not just today, but for the rest of your days."

Alys's brow furrowed further, not understanding, even as she was as familiar with the phrase _bastard_ as she was with her own face. It was hurled at her head so often the title had become all but her name. All she knew was that her mother was with the gods and that her father was a fleeting presence, a pair of strong arms that could set her aside as easily as they could pick her up and swing her around, making her laugh, her dark hair swinging out behind her like a black banner.

Jaime rose to his feet, losing interest in Alys, thinking instead of a future he had never thought to possess, of how fitting it was to see the stag fall and the lion rise. He would gain all Robert had lost, fatherhood falling into his hands whilst it fell through Robert's fingers. All Robert had to show was his bastards, acknowledged or otherwise, his only heir lying cold in the crypt, whilst Jaime's child would grow strong and golden, a son who would sit on the throne his father had killed a king for. "What were you doing up there, anyways?" Jaime said suddenly, startling Alys. "Keeping the throne warm for your father? Or were you merely trying it out for size? I suppose with your brother dead, the path is now clear for you to try and take what should have been yours, is it not?"

"I want my lord father," Alys said just as suddenly, shying away from Jaime, fresh tears threatening to fall again, "he hurt his hand as well."

"Both hands, brat," Jaime corrected her, recalling the court gossip, lords and ladies whispering behind their own hands of Robert's rage, how he had battered the stone wall until his fists bled; that it had taken several of his strongest men to subdue him, Robert breaking several noses as they did. "You should pray your lord father finds peace amidst his pain," Jaime then said quietly, even as he exulted inwardly again at the idea of his child inheriting the kingdom Robert ruled; revenge for every time Robert had warmed Cersei's bed, Jaime forced to set aside the murderous jealousy that engulfed him at the very thought of Robert laying even one finger on her.

"Septa Berdell said I had to pray for my brother," Alys said dully, "that he is with the Mother now."

Jaime looked away, almost ashamed of himself. He had hated the black-haired baby boy Cersei had borne Robert, the child embodying everything he abhorred, seeing the father in the features of the son. In the years that had followed Cersei and Robert's union, there had been no fruits to be found from their marriage, Cersei ensuring there were none, her initial infatuation with Robert turning to hatred until their father Lord Tywin had casually informed her of the whispers that were beginning to brew that she was barren; that Robert should set his queen aside for another, and so Cersei had conceived, bringing forth the son Robert so sought, silencing the whispers and securing her position, Jaime understanding against his will.

Yet for all that Cersei swore she loved Jaime above everyone and everything, she had loved her son, all but blinded by him, as protective as a lioness with her cub. She had been equally dazzled by Rhaegar Targaryen and then Robert Baratheon, their handsome faces turning her head, the power they possessed, possessing her in turn, and all the while, Jaime would wait for her, faithful until the last. But now all that pain and patience had been rewarded, and Jaime's jealousy against Rhaegar and Robert, against even the infant, had now faded like sunlight.

"Go and see the maester, brat," Jaime reiterated tiredly, "he will clean and bind your wound."

"But it _hurts_ ," Alys whined again, "and it's _bleeding_."

Jaime rounded on her, losing what little patience he had left. "Where you stand now," he snapped, towering over her, his face suddenly ugly with animosity, "is where Rhaenys Targaryen lay, not much younger than you, _dead_ and _bleeding_ , hacked to pieces with her baby brother, their bodies wrapped in red cloaks so the blood wouldn't show."

Alys recoiled from him, shrinking into herself, clutching her cut hand to her chest. The names meant nothing to her, but the allusion was enough, Alys conjuring the scene up in her mind's eye, seeing her bleeding body lying alongside her blue-eyed brother's at the foot of the Iron Throne.

"Be grateful that only one sword has tasted your blood," Jaime said coldly, "and not many, for such thirst cannot be easily quenched."

 _These are the darkest clouds_  
 _To have surrounded me_  
 _Now I find myself alone caught in a cage_  
 _There's no flower to be found in here..._


	7. Know My Ground

**Know My Ground**

"Alys! Alys!"

Tommen and Myrcella tumbled through the door, startling the Hound out of slumber, making him shoot upright, his hand flying to his sword. Unperturbed, Alys continued with her embroidery, her hand steady as she stitched, the stench of onions frying making her nose wrinkle involuntarily in revulsion.

"Smells good," the Hound said dourly, lowering his hand to his side at seeing the children, who instantly shrank into themselves, "but scorched flesh smells even better."

Alys didn't even deign to respond to this, only carefully setting down her sewing, gesturing for the children to come forth. With Joffrey out hunting with Robert and Jaime, the Hound had been ordered to stay behind, his presence greatly disturbing Alys's peace.

The assorted assemblage was meant to have arrived in Winterfell the day before, but their journey had been unexpectedly interrupted, the wheelhouse becoming severely bogged down in mud. After finally dragging the wheels free, a feat that had taken several hours of strategy and brute strength, it had then been deemed too dangerous to continue onto Winterfell during the darkness that would soon fall. Consequently the royal retinue had been forced to seek shelter at a ramshackle inn by the crossroads, their unexpected arrival sending the inn-keeper and everyone in his employ into a paralyzing panic, serving up a less than satisfactory repast to the king and his small court, the rest of his entourage forced to rely on their own dwindling supplies for succor.

But just as they had been about to set out again this morning, it had been discovered several wheel-shafts had shattered, delaying their journey even further until it could be repaired. Another raven had been sent ahead to Winterfell, and until the way was clear for them to continue their journey, Alys had reluctantly remained within the stinking confines of the inn, commandeering a corner for herself, the Hound lying asprawl atop a bench opposite, shattering the silence with his sonorous snores. But the relative tranquility of the wheelhouse was strictly out of bounds, Cersei now securing it solely for her use, refusing to spend another second in the inn, loudly declaring it was crawling with pestilence, human or otherwise.

"What is all the commotion for, then?" Alys reproved, drawing Tommen onto her knee, Myrcella throwing herself down onto the bench beside her, both children keeping a wary eye on the Hound who still sniffing the air with relish. "Why were you shouting so? You sounded just like Father when he's in his cups." She tickled Tommen as she spoke, making him laugh, the sound like rippling music.

"Tommen found a kitten," Myrcella explained, lolling against Alys, her golden curls escaping her jeweled hair-net, framing her flushed face like a halo, "and then I found another, and the stable-boy said they'd ran away from their mother, and he showed us where they lived" -

\- "Can we keep them?" Tommen demanded, grabbing Alys by the chin, forcing her to nod. "Say yes – oh, you just did! Thank you, Alys!"

"Enough," Alys ordered, pulling herself free from Tommen's chubby fingers, before smoothing down his long white-blonde hair, the ends brushing the top of his green velvet cloak, the colour echoing his eyes. "The kittens are probably too young to be taken from their mother, and what would your own mother say of the matter?"

"She would let me have a kitten," Tommen said sullenly, but his defiance was laced with doubt, "she would so!"

"These kittens are Northern kittens, as wild as the winds of winter," Alys said playfully, swiftly removing her embroidery from Myrcella's questing reach, "and not the well-bred creatures of King's Landing" -

The rest of her sentence was cut off by the sudden sound of Cersei screaming, making Alys, Tommen and Myrcella flinch violently, the Hound merely raising an eyebrow in response.

"Would you say that was an example of a well-bred creature of King's Landing?" the Hound observed as he idly picked at his teeth. "My ears are testifying otherwise, bastard."

"What's happening?" Alys said anxiously, rising to her feet, Tommen sliding from her lap. "Is it Wildlings?"

"Wildlings!?" Myrcella cried, clutching Alys's arm, green eyes alight with sudden terror. "Are they here!? Will they hurt us!?"

"Of course they'll hurt you, brat," the Hound said, stalking over to the window, "and eat your bones for breakfast. But not before chopping off your pretty fingers to wear as a necklace around their filthy throats."

"That's enough!" Alys said sharply as Myrcella began to bawl, Tommen's lower lip trembling threateningly, Alys lifting him up in her arms as she spoke. "You shouldn't tell such tales" –

\- "I only tell the truth, bastard," the Hound spat, "and the brat and her brother would have an easier end than you would earn. They'd rape you as soon as to look at you" -

\- "That's enough, Dog," a voice snapped from the doorway that led to the kitchen, making everybody whirl around, only to see Tyrion standing there, eating a roasted onion like an apple, his arm around the waist of the inn-keeper's daughter, her freckled face round and ruddy, an uncertain smile playing on her lips. "You should silence that slanderous tongue of yours before someone does it for you."

"Who, you?" the Hound scoffed. "My sword is bigger than you, dwarf."

"I may be half your size but my balls are twice as big as yours," Tyrion said airily, making the inn-keeper's daughter giggle into her apron, "the sheer weight often causes me to overbalance and fall flat on my face, hence my less than handsome visage."

The Hound just shook his head before stalking outside to see what the matter was, drawing his sword as he moved.

"Now, now, Myrcella," Tyrion admonished, waddling over to his niece, reluctantly releasing the inn-keeper's daughter, but not before discreetly slipping a gold coin into her hand, pinching her backside for good measure, the sight making Alys hastily avert her eyes, "if you treasure your darling, if rather diminutive, uncle, particularly his ears, quell those lungs of yours, please."

Myrcella's mouth clamped shut, but her green eyes were querulous as she sat down, Alys doing the same, still holding Tommen in her arms.

"What Wildling in his right mind would dare raise his sword to such a mighty foe as you, one with lungs like sails – why with one breath, you would blow him head over heels," Tyrion continued, hauling himself up onto the bench opposite, winking at the inn-keeper's daughter over his shoulder, sending her giggling again back into the kitchen, "and as for the ears of the Wildlings, well, I tremble for their fate."

"I would unleash my kittens upon them!" Tommen suddenly burst out, waving his fists about, almost striking Alys in the face. "A whole army of kittens!"

Tyrion pretended to swoon. "Mauled by moggies," he said, mopping his brow, "flayed by felines – you are ruthless, Tommen, utterly ruthless. I shall not sleep easy in my bed tonight, I promise you that, young nephew."

"I'll protect you, Alys," Tommen promised, patting her head, grabbing Myrcella's ear with his other hand, "and you too, Myrcella. My kittens shall tear those Wildling bastards to shreds."

"Tommen!" Alys rebuked as Myrcella tore herself free, scowling at Tommen. "Do not use such ungentlemanly language" -

The rest of her rebuke was cut off as the Hound came striding back through the door, slamming it shut behind him, looking very much as though he wanted to strike somebody or something, muttering under his breath, Alys catching a few curses.

"What irks my dear sister this time?" Tyrion asked, finishing off the rest of his roasted onion, smacking his lips with exaggerated appreciation. "The sky the wrong shade of blue?"

"The fools outside have been debating for hours how best to fix the wheelhouse," the Hound snapped, throwing himself back down onto the bench he had vacated, "and when they finally decided to fix the fucker, they didn't bother to check if anyone was inside, resulting in your sweet sister being flung out of her bunk, almost breaking her neck. If only they fucking had" -

\- "Again, treason trips off your tongue like honey, Hound," Tyrion cut across him, "but we shall pretend we didn't hear that last sweet sentence."

"You more than share my sentiments, dwarf."

"Still, she is my sister."

"Well, I'm not going to fucking tolerate being spoken to like a piece of shit," the Hound growled, "your dear sister wanted to know why I wasn't out there, protecting her precious prince, and I told her what he told me, that he didn't need a damned septa" -

\- "Joffrey always had a way with words," Tyrion interrupted again, "as everyone present here can testify. According to my exalted nephew, I am a rutting flyspeck more at home on a stinking pile of shit than in the hallowed halls of King's Landing."

* * *

Theon pulled his undershirt over his head, before pretending to lash Jon with it, making Jon shove him in return, dark brows drawing dangerously together.

"Why is your mother so intent on us being pretty for the king?" Jon asked Robb irritably, watching as the barber ran the edge of the blade across the stubble staining Robb's ruddy skin, the sight making him inwardly wince, despite having never seen the blade slip once in all the times he had been here, waiting to be shaven and sheared. "Who says they will even arrive tomorrow?"

"Well, I'm tarting myself for the queen," Theon said, admiring his arms, even as he knew he wasn't as muscular as Robb or as lithe as Jon, "I hear she's a sleek bit of mink."

Robb rolled his eyes, Jon doing the same, having heard this before.

"Then there's the king's bastard," Theon continued, missing this bit of byplay, "she's said to be a proud piece, touch-me-not, but I bet there's fire behind the ice, you know?" He licked his lips lasciviously, making Jon half turn away, torn between annoyance and amusement, Robb frowning.

"Was she not your foster sister?" Robb then said to Jon. "The king's bastard, I mean, before Father brought you to Winterfell."

"We shared the same wet nurse," Jon said, shrugging his shoulders, having little interest in his life before Winterfell, any curiosity he had of his original origins being limited to his mother, always wondering if she was alive and if she thought of him.

Robb's brow furrowed further. "It's a grave insult for the king to bring his bastard here," he said, Jon accepting the indirect insult, knowing Robb didn't mean any, that he was only telling the truth, "it's making my mother very unhappy."

"He's the king though, isn't he?" Theon said, shrugging his shoulders as well. "The rules of mere mortals don't apply to such as him, do they? He could stick our heads on spikes and would expect us to thank him for the privilege."

"That's enough," Robb reproved, "he is our rightful ruler regardless" -

\- "So says you," Theon spat, "but he's not mine." A shocked silence fell, making Theon turn away, shoulders hunching. When he was a child, his own father had declared himself King of the Iron Islands, only for Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark to unite forces and crush Balon Greyjoy's rebellion out of existence, forcing Theon's father to surrender, Eddard then taking Theon as his hostage and ward, raising him alongside his own children.

"My father has loved you as his own," Robb said quietly, his blue eyes starting to smolder dangerously, the barber beating a careful distance, "treated you with nothing but kindness" -

\- "I'm not talking about your father," Theon snapped, rounding on Robb, "I'm talking about the damned king."

"Enough!" Jon snapped at Theon in turn. "Let's not fight amongst ourselves, alright?"

Theon just turned away again; his ego at war with his emotions, Robb and Jon exchanging glances behind his back, before Robb hesitantly reached out and clasped Theon's bare shoulder, making him stiffen slightly. Then Theon reluctantly relaxed, turning and lightly cuffing Robb across the head.

"Kraken fool," Robb jested, ruffling up Theon's hair in return, "a squid with more balls than sense."

"At least I don't sniff my own balls, _dog_ ," Theon retorted, "like you and your bastard brother here."

"Dogs bite," Jon threatened, "so you should watch your tongue."

"So should Cersei," Theon said, making Robb and Jon groan in unison, " _especially_ Cersei."

"Well, her boy Joff should watch his back," Robb said, picking up a towel, drying his face with it, "I hear the prince is a right royal prick."

"Think of all these Southern girls he gets to" -

\- "By the gods, Theon!" Robb said in disbelief, flicking Theon across his bare chest with the wet end, making him reel back. "Is that all you think about? As I said, you have more balls than brains, octopus."

"Oh, I have brains, wolf," Theon said, tapping the side of his skull, dodging Robb's flick of the towel again, "brains enough to know that you would be saddled with a southern wife if things had been different."

"What do you mean?" Jon said, confused.

"He means if the king's bastard daughter hadn't been baseborn, she would be being paraded before me like a broodmare," Robb said, rolling his eyes.

"You wouldn't hear me complaining," Theon said, "having a sweet morsel such as that in my bed, what with those violet eyes and ebony hair – I heard she has a bosom better than Cersei's" -

\- "Silence, squid," Robb said lazily, raising his towel for the third time, making Theon's mouth instantly clamp shut. "The king's bastard could have a hunch for all you know" -

\- "Am I getting a haircut or not?" Jon said querulously, becoming bored of all this talk of girls, exposing his own lack of experience.

\- "Go on, Tommy, shear him good," Robb said, grabbing Jon, shoving him at the barber, "he's never met a girl he likes better than his own hair."

* * *

She was falling, falling, _falling_ -

Alys suddenly shot upright, making Myrcella murmur in protest before rolling onto her other side, scattering straw as she did. Alys and the children had been exiled to the inn, spending the night there before journeying to Winterfell in the morning, the siblings sleeping on straw pallets, Cersei still securing the wheelhouse as her sacred sanctum, even as she had to reluctantly share it with Robert, who had refused to be dismissed like a dog.

Pushing the tangled dark hair out of her eyes, Alys then held her palms out before her, only to see the scar from where the Iron Throne had cut her as a child, the memory chilling her blood, echoing her nightmare all too vividly. She had been dreaming of the Iron Throne standing in the midst of a rushing ford, the water swirling past, Alys struggling to stay upright, the flowing skirts of her gown threatening to drag her down.

In vain, she had tried to wade ashore, but she kept finding herself before the throne, the riverbank retreating from her. She had made one last desperate attempt to strike out for dry land, only to lose her balance, the water instantly claiming her, sweeping her downstream, Alys frantically grabbing the throne as she was dragged past, the swordpoints piercing her palms, spilling her blood like rubies, forcing her to let go, Alys falling, falling, _falling_ , and then Alys had awoken, the river and reality colliding in her consciousness, Alys still hearing the roar of the water in her ears as she went under.

Swinging her legs over the side of the straw pallet, Alys sat there for a long moment, holding her head between her hands. Behind her, Myrcella mumbled about lemon cakes, whilst Joffrey snored loudly in his corner, the Hound propped up against the wall, clutching his sword even in sleep. Next door, Tyrion's voice could be heard, along with giggling, making the Hound's hand twitch in reflex.

As she sat there, there came the dawning realization there was a voice missing from the chorus, making Alys slowly raise her head from her hands, her eyes growing wide with horror. Tommen was nowhere to be seen, his blankets lying in disarray, his green velvet cloak cast carelessly over the back of a rickety wooden chair. Within heartbeats, Alys had donned her own cloak, before hastily drawing on her delicately shod slippers, designed more for dancing and daintily crossing smooth surfaces, than the rough Northern terrain outside.

Acting on instinct, Alys immediately set off for the stables, the cold air biting her flesh like teeth. Her father's retinue had set up camp in the surrounding fields, the darkness illuminated by the embers of their dying fires, the sound of singing and laughter shattering the silence. Amidst the merriment, Jaime would be there, allowing himself the luxury of almost anonymity, Alys imagining how his harsh profile would be softened by the flickering flames, before ruthlessly exiling that particular thought, reining her heart in.

Gritting her teeth, Alys slipped into the stableyard, stepping over the snoring stable-boy Tommen had spoken of. The place stank of shit and manure, Alys hastily avoiding a putrid pile of horse droppings, shielding her face with her arm against the stench. The stables loomed up ahead, sheltering the horses owned by her father and his inner circle, the rest left to the tender mercies of their lesser masters, either tied to fences or poles, exposed to the elements.

Swiftly ducking inside, Alys's eyes took a few moments to adjust to the gloom, searching desperately for any sign of Tommen. Rounding one of the stalls, she was startled to see her father clad only in his hose and undershirt, the laces of his boots loose. At his swaying feet, Tommen lay fast asleep, a kitten draped across his shoulder, another tucked under his arm, their mother curled up beside Tommen, watching the strangers with slanting green eyes, flicking her tail like a whip.

"Alys," Robert said with great surprise, regaining his balance with some difficulty, Alys suddenly realising he was inebriated, "what are you doing abroad at this time of night?"

Taken aback by his apparently genuine, albeit drunken, concern, Alys just stared at him, her fists clenching, sudden rage rising in her at his hypocrisy. Apart from overruling Cersei's strictures about allowing Alys to accompany them to Winterfell, Robert had more or less ignored Alys, not even sparing her a fond glance or a warm word. She was no longer the little girl he could swing through the air, his strong arms holding her aloft, making her feel like she was flying, and now here they were, neither one of them able to bridge the chasm between king and bastard, father and daughter.

"Who the hell is chaperoning you all?" Robert snapped, recovering himself, repressing a belch as he spoke. "First, I find Tommen sleeping in the stables, now I find you cavorting about in the dark as well! Where are Joffrey and Myrcella, eh? Are they on the prowl too when they should be abed!?"

Alys repressed the urge to ask what _he_ was doing abroad in the night, no doubt looking for willing female flesh to warm his. "I suppose they would simply be asserting their birthright," she then said coolly, some distant part of her shocked at daring to speak to her father and sovereign so, even as her anger lent her the courage, "since they are lions, are they not? Prowling is merely a means of expression for such beasts."

Robert stared at her, caught offguard by her unexpected remark. Then he threw back his head and roared, the sound making Tommen jolt awake, scattering cat and kittens to the wind. "Out of the mouths of babes," he boomed, slapping his fat thigh. "Yes, they are more lion than stag, much to their misfortune. I see you are not one to scorn the truth, girl."

"Just one of my many talents," Alys said coldly as she knelt down and picked up the confused Tommen in her arms, "but I wouldn't list cavorting as one of them. I would attribute such a sin more to you, Father."

"Watch your words, girl," Robert retorted, all good humor instantly fading, his gaze becoming briefly unfocused. "Your damned septa should be doing her damned duty. Where is the old crone?"

Alys just shook her head, balancing Tommen on her hip, the little boy drowsily leaning his head against her shoulder. Ever since Alys had been classed as old enough to be responsible for others other than herself, Cersei had decreed Alys no longer required the services of a septa, haphazard as they'd been. As for Septa Eglantine, ever since Cersei had exiled her from the wheelhouse, the septa had feigned illness, stating traveling disagreed with her, forcing Alys to step into the breach.

"Never mind," Robert said abruptly, shaking his head, losing interest as usual, "just go - get out of my sight, and take that lioncub with you."

Alys bit back a bitter retort, only inclining her head in acknowledgement of his order, before turning and leaving, her cloak trailing behind her like a shadow.

 _And I'll kneel down_ _  
_ _Wait for now_ _  
_ _And I'll kneel down_ _  
_ _Know my ground…_


	8. Counting Paths

**Counting Paths**

"I feel sick," Myrcella whimpered, her small hand finding Alys's, "I think I _am_ going to be sick."

"We're here, sweeting," Cersei said dismissively, "much to our misfortune."

Myrcella fell silent, glancing out of the window instead, her green gaze barely registering the world flashing past, the wide grey skies giving way to weathered stone. As Alys followed the path of her stare, it seemed as if the walls of Winterfell rose up to meet them, surrounding, sheltering.

Giving Myrcella's hand a comforting squeeze, Alys shifted uncomfortably in her seat, pins and needles pricking her cramped legs. With her other hand, she tugged at the too tight ridges of her braid, having dressed her hair in the Northern style, plaiting the top part back, leaving the rest to flow over her shoulders and down her back. As for her siblings, she had merely brushed Myrcella and Tommen's golden curls, before coaxing them into fresh clothes, Tommen openly rebelling against giving up his green velvet cloak.

"Where is Uncle Imp?" Tommen demanded. "Have the Wildlings took him?"

"With any luck, yes," Cersei snapped, "now hush!"

The wheelhouse juddered to a halt, jolting them in their seats, making their necks painfully snap back. Unsteadily rising to her feet, Cersei braced herself for balance, signalling for her children to stand up, Alys remaining rooted to the spot, suddenly feeling sick. She wasn't wanted here; her presence only serving to pollute the proceedings, but the order had been issued, forcing Alys to obey.

Reluctantly following her stepmother and siblings out of the wheelhouse, Alys paused in the doorway, drawing her cloak closer around her shoulders, the winter winds striking her skin like a whip, causing the tendrils of dark hair escaping her braid to blow violently around her face. Ignoring Alys, Cersei gracefully alighted onto the cobbles, drawing her children close as she glanced contemptuously around her, her lips curling downwards in disdain. As Alys stood at the top of the steps, she nervously surveyed her surroundings, the world almost whirling before her in a bewildering blur of blue and grey.

All was still, all was silent, the inhabitants of Winterfell on their knees, bare heads bowed, the high and lowly made equal in the sight of their sovereign. Just ahead, Robert drew up on his great black destrier, impatiently appraising his audience, accepting their deference as his rightful due. One of his men rushed forwards with a mounting block, Robert's nostrils flaring at the indignity as he was helped from his horse, remembering his defiant youth when he'd ridden bareback, dismounting and mounting with arrogant ease.

Biting her lip, Alys then descended the steps, concealing herself behind Cersei and her siblings, careful to keep out of sight as much as possible. Nearby, Jaime leapt down from his own mount, removing his helmet, before carelessly shaking his golden hair back, his mouth mocking as he studied the scene before him. In King's Landing, Robert was discreetly ridiculed, but here, he was being openly revered, the irony amusing Jaime.

Idly casting his gaze across the courtyard, his eye caught Alys's, Jaime deliberately holding her stare for a long moment, Alys's stance stiffening, Jaime taking a bitter satisfaction in the sight, remembering how she had refused his kiss. Then he abruptly turned away, feigning interest in the blue and grey banners that lined the walls, each featuring the direwolf sigil of Stark House. Struggling to keep her composure, Alys also turned away, watching Cersei's ladies-in-waiting instead as they made mincing steps across the courtyard, their painted faces and elaborate coiffures cutting a strong contrast to their bleak surroundings. They came to a halt at the wheelhouse, the women clutching each other and giggling, shooting flirtatious glances under their lashes at Jaime as they shivered in their silks and satins.

Just opposite, the Hound remained on horseback, drawing back the hinged fangs of his dog-shaped helmet with some difficulty, his attention also fixed upon the ladies-in-waiting, watching as they pouted and posed, his gaze lingering longest upon their coral lips, thwarted desire distorting his ravaged features even further. Contempt curdled within Alys; not for the Hound, but for herself. Her conscience couldn't condemn, not when she wantonly wanted what would always be out of reach. Being a bastard meant no decent man would marry her, so she had long decided to stand alone, refusing to emulate her mother's example, casting all honour aside.

Gritting her teeth, Alys ran her gaze over the crowd, a flash of movement suddenly catching her eye, startling her. One of the men kneeling had dared to raise his head, his stern gaze locking with hers, holding it hostage. He was of an age with her father, his roughhewn features framed by long ash blonde hair, his skin stained by stubble. Brow furrowing, Alys stared at him, confused. Then her father stepped in front of the stranger, blocking him from her sight, Alys realising too late he must be Eddard Stark.

"Your Grace," Eddard said quietly, inclining his head awkwardly.

Alys watched as her father stared Eddard down, the other man enduring his aggressive scrutiny with apparent equanimity. Then Robert abruptly signalled for Eddard to stand, the rest of the crowd doing the same, careful to still keep their heads bowed. As everyone rose to their feet, Alys noticed Joffrey smile at a young girl standing just along from Eddard, no doubt one of his daughters, her hands folded decorously in front of her. She was probably a year or so younger than Joffrey, with amber hair curling around a pretty face, an answering smile playing demurely across her lips.

Repressing the urge to roll her eyes, Alys silently scoffed as the girl continued to play the part of the blushing rose to perfection, casting her gaze downwards before peeking up through her lashes at Joffrey, looking at him as though he was the embodiment of all her maidenly idylls; Joffrey who liked to spit in the servants' faces and cut the tails off kittens. Once upon a time, he had been her roly-poly baby brother, toddling at her heels, always anxious for attention, but no more, the innocent child becoming replaced by a spoilt sadist.

Impatiently pushing the hair out of her face, Alys then glanced at the older red-haired boy standing next to the girl, his attention also fixed upon the pair's flirtation. He headed the long line of Stark children, his blazing blue eyes boring into Joffrey, fists flexing by his sides, seeing the prince's open admiration of his sister as an insult. Curious now, Alys's gaze then travelled down the rest of the row of fidgeting children, taking in their long faces and dark hair; before ending with Eddard and his wife, a tall woman with flowing auburn tresses tinged with grey, the House of Stark standing sentinel. Glancing upwards, her gaze met the red-haired boy's for a brief moment, Alys then abruptly looking away, the red-haired boy doing the same, before glancing back at her, a frown creasing his brow.

"You've gone to seed, Stark," Robert then said coldly, eyes narrowing.

At this, Eddard merely looked at Robert, his grey gaze sweeping over the king's own undeniable girth, before raising his eyebrows pointedly, the ghost of a smile haunting his lips, making him look surprisingly boyish.

As everybody stared, shocked, waiting for Robert's wrath to rain down on Eddard for his insolence, Robert startled them all by throwing back his head and roaring with laughter, Eddard also losing the rest of his reserve, craggy face creasing with merriment. "Come here, you old dog!" Robert bellowed, pulling Ned into a rib-bruising embrace.

"I am glad to see you," Ned said, drawing back with some difficulty, "it has been too long."

"Aye, it has," Robert said, brow furrowing, "but things will be different now, I promise."

At this, Ned merely bowed his head, hiding the unease in his heart, his joy at seeing Robert, the man he called brother, tempered by fear for the future, what the king's coming meant for them all. As Robert then fell upon Catelyn, his embrace almost crushing her out of existence, Ned glanced over at Alys again, seeking her face, trying and failing to find his sister in her features. She didn't see his scrutiny this time, her attention elsewhere, her gaze darting like a bird, never settling for long, her stance equally as uncertain, trying to stand out of sight behind her step-mother.

"Still a beauty, I see," Robert said with a wink, finally relinquishing a now ruffled looking Catelyn, her lips reluctantly curving up at the corners.

"Your Grace," she acknowledged, bowing her head.

Robert then moved awkwardly along the line, patting the smallest Stark boy on the head, mussing up his brown hair. "Who have we here?" he then asked as he approached the red-haired boy, his jovial manner instantly disappearing, becoming replaced by a sharp interest. "You must be Robb."

Robb stared straight ahead, his jaw tightening. "I am, Your Grace," he said stiffly, his thick brows drawing together in derision, lending his face a wolfish look.

"It's Robert," the king corrected him, "you were named after me, boy, so stop the damned formalities."

Robb's face reddened, but he suddenly unbent, hesitating before holding out his hand to Robert, who took it, giving him a hearty handshake. He looked at Robb for a long moment, something like strange regret flickering across his face, as if remembering his own lost youth, before releasing Robb from his hold.

Shifting from one foot to the other, Alys shrunk further within her furs, wishing her father would hurry up and finish with the formalities he supposedly held in such disdain. In front of her, Tommen whined to his mother that he was hungry, Cersei hushing him, her beautiful face now like a blank mask, betraying none of the storm brewing within.

Robert stumbled to a stop before the girl standing beside Robb, the one who had captured Joffrey's attention, his gaze impatiently sweeping over her. "Aye, you're a pretty one," he said brusquely, the girl accepting the trite compliment with a curtsey, Robert looking at her for a long moment as he had her brother, as though weighing something in the balance. Moving along again, he stooped down to speak to the younger girl standing next to her, just as briskly asking her name, the girl's grey eyes narrowing before she answered, as though she had been on the edge of ignoring him before thinking better of it.

"Mother," Myrcella whispered, turning her flower-like face upwards, green eyes pleading. "May we go inside now? It is so _cold_."

"I know, my love," Cersei said under her breath, giving Myrcella's hand a warning squeeze, "soon we shall seek warmth, but not yet."

"Show us your muscles, lad," Robert boomed at the last Stark boy, who obligingly curled his arm, Robert nodding in approval. "You'll be a soldier," he declared loudly, before glancing over his shoulder at Cersei, his blue eyes suddenly cold above his beard, Cersei swiftly obeying his unspoken order.

" _Finally_ ," she breathed, gracefully stepping forwards, bringing Myrcella and Tommen with her, the children struggling to keep up with her sudden stride, leaving Alys open and exposed, once more rooted to the spot.

"Alys!" Robert reprimanded. "Stop straggling and come here at once, girl!"

Alys flinched, her face reddening again, her startled stare flying to the Starks, the children curious, Robb's face strangely standing out amongst them, the expression in his eyes unreadable; his father's face equally inscrutable, Catelyn's forbidding, her gaze taking Alys in from top to toe, the corners of her lips now curling downwards, as though she found something in Alys wanting. Exhaling sharply, Alys took a tremulous step forwards, knowing all too well her father was insulting their hosts, but that he could because he was a king. Somehow she found herself standing before the Starks, her gaze fixed upon the cobbles, her fists clenching beneath her cloak, feeling as if the full weight of the crowd's gaze was upon her.

Ned swiftly stepped forwards, heart pounding now, struggling to keep his composure. Glancing at Alys's bowed head, the pain tore afresh through him; once Lyanna had stood so before him, her dark head bowed, fists clenched by her sides, showing the iron usually hidden beneath. And now here stood his sister's child, back where the wolves wandered, kings of a cold empire. Jaw tightening, Alys glanced up, making Ned catch his breath. For a heartbeat, he thought he saw the ghost of Lyanna look back at him from behind Alys's eyes, but then it was gone, her fragile features tainted by the Targaryen proudness, her gaze an unsettling blend of grey and violet, clashing with the darkness of her ebony hair.

"My queen," he abruptly addressed Cersei, lowering his head, averting his eyes from Alys, as if she didn't exist, his stare settling on Cersei instead, making him commit another mistake. As his gaze met her green one, he froze, caught offguard by her loveliness, the passing years having only served to ripen her golden beauty, rendering it more earthly than ethereal.

A small smile tugged at the corner of Cersei's lips at seeing even the honourable Eddard Stark falter before her, as every other man did at first laying eyes upon her face. Wordlessly she held out her hand to him, holding his gaze as she did, Ned hesitating before taking it, awkwardly pressing his lips to her knuckles, before letting go and drawing back, shoulders hunching slightly.

"My queen," Catelyn echoed, sweeping an elegant curtsey, "we are ever at your disposal."

"Thank you," Cersei said graciously, inclining her golden head. "You possess a fine family, Lady Catelyn," she then said, drawing Tommen and Myrcella to her, winding her arms around their shoulders, "it's a sight to warm any mother's heart."

As Cersei and Catelyn proceeded to exchange pointless pleasantries, Robert rolling his eyes, impatience etched on his face, Alys dared to look around her again, her legs feeling a little steadier beneath her. Again, her gaze met Robb's, but as before, he immediately looked away, Alys doing the same, casting her gaze across the crowd again, almost as if she was searching for an escape.

Behind the Starks stood the rest of their household, forming rows and rows of faces, Alys eying them curiously despite herself, only to freeze as one of the youths standing near the front winked at her, before licking his lips lasciviously, running his protuberant blue gaze up and down her figure, appraising her as if she was a common harlot awaiting his custom. Before she could blink, the boy standing on his left, ruthlessly elbowed him in the side, making the other youth yelp, before hurriedly clamping his mouth shut as everybody glanced over at him, frowning at the interruption. Face crimson, he clutched his side, looking as if he wished himself a world away, all the bravado literally knocked out of him.

Trying to keep her dignity, Alys hesitated before stiffly nodding at the boy, the gesture barely perceptible, a brief jerk of her head, but he returned it with a faint tilting of his chin, his face pale and grave beneath his cropped curls, her acknowledgement of his gallantry making him shift awkwardly on the spot. Drawing her skirts around her, Alys then turned away from the two youths, forcing herself to hold her head high, determinedly keeping her gaze fixed upon a point in the middle distance, her father's harsh tones making it even more difficult to marshal her turbulent thoughts together.

"Take me to the crypt, Ned," Robert complained, raising his voice above Cersei and Catelyn's, making their conversation falter, "I want to pay my respects."

"We've been riding for a month, my love," Cersei protested, rounding on him as she spoke, her face flushing angrily, "surely the dead can wait?"

"Ned," Robert ordered abruptly, ignoring Cersei, " _now_." He turned to leave, only for the edge of his boot to catch on a cobble, making him lose his already unsteady balance. As he staggered, high and low rushed forwards to catch their king, panic polluting the air, but Robb Stark reached him first, steadying him.

"Your Grace," Robb said coolly, "you seem eager to be introduced to the ground. "

"I seem eager to bruise my ego," Robert roughly rejoindered, shaken despite himself, "but it is no matter." Robb nodded, releasing his hold on the king, taking a step back as he did. "You have a grip of iron, boy," Robert continued, looking at Robb for a long moment again, something like envy flickering across his bloated face, "you must be a sight to see when wielding a sword."

"It is my preferred weapon of choice, Your Grace."

"Not the humble warhammer, eh?" -

-"Robert," Cersei interjected impatiently, stepping in front of Robb, the rest of the crowd retreating, "perhaps you should sit down" -

\- "Leave me be, woman!" Robert bellowed. "I'm not on my deathbed yet, though I'd bet my best hound you're practically pissing yourself with excitement at the thought" -

\- "Father!" Alys blurted out before she could stop herself, ears burning. "That is enough!"

Before Robert could react, Ned moved in front of Alys, discreetly gesturing for Catelyn to take the children inside. "Aye," he said bluntly, "we have tarried enough as it is, and a harsh wind is beginning to blow. Robb, please escort the king to the crypt, I will follow shortly." He turned to Cersei, bowing his head in her direction, carefully avoiding looking upon her countenance. "My queen," he said quietly, "please allow my wife to show you to your chambers - this is no weather to be standing outside in."

Cersei stood there, green eyes glittering dangerously, but she inclined her head again, accepting his hospitality. Gathering her skirts around her, she followed Catelyn across the courtyard, the royal children trailing at her heels, the rest of the Stark children following suit.

"Seven hells," Robert snapped, rounding on Ned, "you may be King of the North, but you best bloody remember I rule the Seven Kingdoms!"

"I more than know my place, Your Grace," Ned said evenly, "but do you really want to freeze your arse off out here longer than necessary?"

"Father!" Robb reprimanded. "You cannot speak so to our sovereign!"

"Spoken like a loyal Stark," Robert said, lightly cuffing Robb across the head., making him stagger slightly "I see you cannot escape your own brats upbraiding you either, Ned." He shot a warning glance at Alys, but she determinedly ignored him, glancing about her instead as those standing on ceremony finally broke their silence, stretching their legs and shouting across the courtyard to one another, the atmosphere lightening, others calling up to balconies and windows, their laughter carrying through the air.

"Aye," Ned said fondly, "but do not fret, Robb, we speak as brothers, not as liege and lord."

For a long moment, Ned and Robert looked at each other, before Robert suddenly grabbed Ned again. "Come here, you sentimental old fool!" he roared, knuckling Ned's head as if they were boys. "Brothers, eh! You are more kin to me than my own kith!"

As the men wrestled, Alys feigned interest in watching her father's retinue being attended to by the Stark retainers, her gaze lingering on Jaime as he led Joffrey through the throng, the boy brandishing his new sword, turning it this way and that, catching the cold winter light, making the silver blade gleam like ice.

"Somebody should warn your brother that a sword is not a toy," Robb said in an undertone to Alys, startling her.

Alys stared at him. "His uncle is instructing him so," she then said stiffly, "but it is a lesson hard learned."

Robb merely nodded, looking unconvinced. "I trust your journey was not too arduous?" he then said, trying and failing to assume a mantle of formality, almost aping his father's inelegant manners.

Alys hunched her shoulders, not sure of his civility. "In parts," she admitted uneasily, "but the beauty of our surroundings more than salved our passage."

"Aye, it is beautiful," Robb said, glancing at the distant mountains, "but it is a harsh beauty only the strong can survive."

Alys bit her lip. "You do not need to trouble yourself with conversation, my lord," she said quietly. "I will not be offended if you prefer me to absent myself from your presence."

"And where would you absent yourself?" Robb asked, amused against his will at her words. "A far corner perhaps?"

"I should not be here," Alys snapped, "it is an insult to your parents."

Robb looked at her for a long moment, her humility suddenly no longer humorous. "I... I am more than aware of that," he said slowly, the truth of her statement sobering him, remembering the way she had stood before them, looking as though she wished the ground would open up and remove her from all existence, "but... but that doesn't give Theon the right to insult you in turn."

Alys glanced sharply at him. "You witnessed that?" she said, jerking her chin behind her. "What he did?"

"It... it was not unexpected," Robb said, wincing slightly.

"How so?"

"Your beauty precedes you, my lady," Robb said, the tips of his ears turning crimson again, "I suppose the sight of you went to Theon's head like wine."

Alys just looked at him, before suddenly bursting out laughing, the emotion feeling alien. "Do you often speak such nonsense, my lord?" she asked, shaking her head.

Robb bowed his own head. "Forgive me," he said, feeling the heat creep up the back of his neck, "I am not well versed in the art of gallantry. Theon was a swine and I will ensure he apologises for his actions."

Alys looked away, the laughter leaving her eyes, "I am a bastard," she said simply, "so do not trouble yourself."

Again, Robb looked at her for a long moment, his gaze travelling over her proud profile, the fall of her dark hair, everything he hadn't expected her to be, surprised at himself for even expecting anything from her. "The boy with the curly hair?" he said, startling Alys again. "That was Jon, my half brother, and your foster brother. You shared the same wet nurse as infants before my father brought Jon to Winterfell and you were taken to King's Landing."

Alys nodded this time. "All the more reason for us to remember our rightful places, then," she said, before turning away from him, staring up at the bleak blue sky instead, unaware of Robb watching her, his gaze reflecting the heavens above.

 _Trace the lines upon your face_  
 _They tell a tale you can't erase..._


End file.
